


Gratified

by highfivingjesus



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Captain Swan - Freeform, Daddy!Killian, Drabbles, Episode: s03e11 Going Home, Episode: s03e12 New York City Serenade, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Mommy!Emma, My First Work in This Fandom, Reunited and It Feels So Good, baby Jones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-03-15 08:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3441077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highfivingjesus/pseuds/highfivingjesus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hook expects to find Emma without her memories intact. But she's always managed to surprise him. (Set after the missing year)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, it's been ages since I've written anything at all ever and I've never written Captain Swan at all ever, so put those together and here's what you get: a cliche.
> 
> But honestly, these AUs are my favorite types, ngl.

Killian Jones was beyond exhausted with this New York City, and so his temperament with her citizens had fallen short of favorable.

He was used to bustling ports and lewd taverns, so certainly the rush of the city was of no concern. In fact, he gave as good as he got, cutting through crowds with thrown elbows and steadfast shoulders and paid no mind to heels backing over his toes. He had gathered from his time back in Storybrooke that the seventeenth hour was the release of the working class, knew that he had chosen possibly the worst moment to continue his quest. But he also assumed that it increased his chances.

So far he had been proven wrong and that hope was quickly dwindling.

No, it was not the misconduct and insistence of bad form by nearly every person he had stalked by that really set his teeth on edge (though, honestly, an _excuse me_ would suffice; truly not a hard concept, manners), but it was the traffic and the looming buildings with glowing posters that shimmered and shifted to create new images and the honking. It was the vendors on the sides of the road trying to sell him something offensive-looking wrapped in bread—something disgustingly titled a _hot dog_ (which apparently contained not a bit of pup but consisted of the grizzly bits of swine (bits that he never would’ve considered edible, never mind a _delicacy_ ), the clerk rushed to assure him on pain of death). It was the images of hardly dressed women and grainy photos of people brawling and headlines such as LONE WOLF KILLED HIS WIFE AND UNBORN CHILD with promises of a worthwhile story all crowded into one place.

Buildings slithered up into the grey of the sky, like black thorns pushing out of the earth. Windows stacked upon windows, lit from within by _electricity_ and kept cool by way of _central air_ and _AC units_. Not a speck of sunlight and yet Killian could hardly resist stripping himself of his leather duster from the heat brought by the press of anxious bodies that all paused to cast wary, amused eyes upon him.

He had been in New York for just under a week now and he was beginning to truly feel it. That yearning for open waters, open sky. Nothing but the sounds of men tending to beloved wood beams, swabbing and swearing. He ached to ride the winds. He despaired for the control of being an officer. But...

But what’s one week of suffering in the name of Emma Swan?

What is such a small sacrifice in the face of—he wouldn’t lie to himself, all he had was a small thread of possibility, but he had tangled his fingers so tightly in the line of her smile that it mattered not.

Even if he never found her…

He had to try.

Killian held up the address Regina had given him and compared it to the street sign. _Finally._ It wasn’t much but at least he need not scour the city for a damn street.

He had stopped to ask directions only once but when the boy, barely a man, had threatened to alert the law (he hadn’t even motioned with his hook, let alone made any threats, _seven hells_ ) he figured he would fare better on his own. (He was probably wrong, should’ve just attached his wooden hand and asked for some bloody directions, but every day he had awoken with one thought— _it’ll be today_ —and so it never seemed necessary).

(And in such an unfamiliar place, surrounded by such unfamiliar faces, with only the hollow burn left by his Swan… he couldn’t bear to part with any piece of himself)

( _It’ll be today_ )

He pushed himself along the sidewalk and alternated his attention between the brick houses and the crinkled slip of paper. The pirate cut through the evening crowd. Watched the numbers tip up, two at a time. Bloody well said _excuse me_ when he knocked a lady. Looked at her address and then…

Seven hells.

***  
If True Love’s Kiss didn’t work, Hook would have a hell of a lot of damage control to perform or Emma would certainly never take the potion. And if a kiss didn’t save his Swan then there would be no option for the boy. If the kiss didn’t work… 

He had to believe in them. He had to believe that he loved her enough to make up for her doubts. 

She… she had been encouraging his affections, hadn’t she? He didn’t imagine her pointed look, the touch of bittersweet affection, when…

She had said—it was not the first time that perfect word had crossed her lips. And if she meant what he thought she did, well then she had to love him, even a little bit, in some way.

In the year without her, he had tried not to dwell too much on what had transpired between them. He had to direct his full and prompt attention to finding the Jolly Roger if he was to even begin to hope he’d find her. And to maintain his standing as the most dastardly pirate to ever sail, he had to devote himself to reverting every effort he’d made to be a better man. There was scarcely a moment he could spare to remember her breathless in his arms, his hand pressing her’s down into a swirl of silk sheets, _good_ slipping into the air between their lips… 

Killian knocked soundly, her address crumpled in his fist.

_Gods above_ , this was his last hope. How could he ever find her, if not in this moment? How would he even begin to pick up the pieces and carry on?

And then the door swung open and there she stood, sharp green eyes turned suspiciously on him, and while that hurt some part of him…

“Swan,” he breathed. “At last.”

His eyes moved to trail her body because _bloody hell_ he hadn’t seen her in a year and he just couldn’t help himself from drinking in every bit of her and—and—

And there, squirming in her arms, sat a babe with eyes like the sea and hair as dark as a raven. The girl suckled her socked foot and stared openly up at him.

Emma’s brows furrowed. “Who the hell are you?”

_Seven hells_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that he's found her, and restored her memories, he can devote his time to a different lass.

The child was a wee one, in possession of the shape of a suggested circle, with a round belly and rolls down her arms and legs (healthy, _gods_ ). He knew this because she donned nothing more than special, white knickers—reminiscent of diapers from the Enchanted Forest, but disposable, he assumed for convenience’s sake—and little blue socks for her little pink feet (she was so _little_ ). Emma explained in the vaguest of terms that her cooling unit had broken and it was too hot for the child to wear anything more, and then told him she’d be back after packing her bags. 

The lad had already left for school and wouldn’t be back until the afternoon, an honest relief because at the moment Hook could hardly breathe, let alone focus on not exposing himself as a dastardly, _fictional_ villain.

Killian had just barely avoided attempting True Love’s Kiss two days before, and that was only because the babe had thrown him. Of all the things that he had prepared his old, aching heart for, the lass was not one of them. In fact, she successfully blew all of his composure out of the water. He had looked up into the eyes of his Swan after staring at the lass too long ( _too damn long_ ), saw the moment her motherly instinct had kicked in, and found himself immediately faced with a locked door.

After rounding up his wayward thoughts, he knocked and called softly into the apartment, “Swan, please, I mean no harm. I need only a moment.”

Of course, she shouted for him to go away lest she call the cops (law enforcement, he had to remind himself) (gods, slang was so strange in this realm).

It took time, patience, some slight coaxing from Henry ( _“Mom, what if he needs help?”_ ) and the compromise that she could keep the chain on the door.

She glared through the whole conversation, and called him mad perhaps seven times. Altogether, it had been a success. She had agreed to hear him out the next day just inside of Central Park—she wanted Henry safely tucked away in school and Hope ( _seven hells_ , this woman was a torment) hidden under the protection of a babysitter. And then, sitting on a park bench, he calmly and thoroughly explained the situation—the dark curse, how they met ( _“Captain Hook? You’re kidding me.” “You swore to not interrupt, love.”_ ), Neverland, and Pan’s curse. He figured he’d wait to tell her about the new curse once she remembered.

When that didn’t work (blasted skeptic, he loved her so much) he asked her too calmly who three-month-old Hope’s father was. She got rather defensive, nearly walked away from him at that moment, until he stated rather boldly that she couldn’t possibly know.

Needless to say, he had her. The promise of discovery (one necessary for Hope’s health because what could the father have passed down) had her desperate enough to trust him. Hook had a sneaking suspicion that his coloring also had her curious and pliable to his convincing. So she took the potion.

( _“Hook.”_ )

They had decided to leave the next day.

***

Hope lay on the floor, disgruntled after her mum had made her sit up. She seemed quite decided that either she would lounge the day away or she would crawl and there was no option in between. Her little lips puckered and fell open, her round fingers pulling off one of her socks, and she steadfastly held her little booty out to him as an offering.

Killian glanced over the back of the couch, cautious of Swan seeing and reacting poorly. (But some part of him hoped— _knew_ that this was what she wanted, knew by the way she not-so-subtly excused herself from the room and asked him to keep his eye on the lass)

Hope waved her sock to gather his attention and kicked her little feet up by her head. Oh, bloody hell.

Killian detached his hook from its brace and set it on the side table, so terrified of hurting the precious babe, even by accident. He was so terrified that Swan would see him unfit, would finally see what a monster he was, see how jagged his edges were that even a gentle touch would bring harm. She’d see him as he was and take the child away. ( _Gods_ , he was already so in love with her).

He slid to the floor, took the sock from Hope’s tight fist—such a fierce little lass, just like her mum—and carefully pulled it back onto her foot. She began to babble up at him curiously, and then latched on tightly to the pendants hung around his neck and waved then joyfully. And she had dark hair ( _his_ dark hair) and blue eyes ( _his_ blue eyes) and Swan’s chin, Swan’s nose, Swan’s smile. Gods, he couldn’t even breathe. 

Killian had thought—he had hoped once—

All he ever wanted was a family. And every time that seemed like a possibility (his parents, Liam, Milah, Bae) it was torn away. He was left behind again. He was never good enough for people to stay—because _villains don’t get happy endings_. 

And maybe one day he’d have Swan, and maybe one day Henry, and maybe (but probably not) he’d have Snow and Charming at least tolerate him. Maybe one day there would be people (plural, gods) that he loved who loved him in return.

But today he had Hope.

“Hello, little love,” he whispered, his voice breaking as she moved to latch onto his finger. Her little hand wrapped around his heart and she whispered _mine_ and he was done for. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for this precious babe, _his_ precious babe.

“Do you wanna hold her?”

Killian tore his gaze from the lass long enough to see Swan standing above him with her arms crossed and a gentle smile on her face. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the words to express just how much he wanted, so he nodded. He sat against the couch and she helped him gather the child up and showed him where to support her. Swan sat beside him, her fingers brushing over Hope’s dark hair, and laid her head back.

“I couldn’t figure out how she was possible,” Emma confided, not looking at him. He, too, couldn’t look away from Hope. “But I knew she was a second chance. When Henry was born—” She stilled beside him and pulled her hand into her lap.

“What, Swan?” he asked quietly, glancing over at her blank face.

She shrugged and said, “In my fake memories, when he was born we were starving. Not for long. But I remember holding him to my chest and wishing I had something to feed him so he’d stop crying. This time, we could do better.” Killian ached for the two of them because, real or not, those early memories were still a cross for her to bear. He wished only for Emma to be happy. “Someone said to me that happy endings start with hope. I hope they were right.”

She leaned over to press a kiss on top of Hope’s head, the child’s eyes blinking sleepily as her father cradled her to his chest. 

“I would’ve come with you, if Regina had allowed it.” He didn’t know why he said it but it felt important that she know he hadn’t meant to abandon her. He would never leave her side, if she were willing.

“You came back,” she reminded him. She studied Hope for a long moment, sitting silently beside the man she was quietly falling in love with, trying not to imagine another child—a little boy, this time, with light curls. She could feel the weight of it all pressing down on her chest, could feel the panic start to crawl up her throat, and for a moment she was afraid.

And Killian could see it, as always, so he whispered rather arrogantly, “We make a handsome child, I must say.”

She smirked and elbowed him in the side. He grinned at her, only too pleased to tease her if it batted back her walls.

They fell silent again, Killian shifting the now sleeping babe in his arms so that he could drop a sweet kiss on her little forehead, and settled down into the still moment. His eyes trailed the little lines of her brilliant face, latched on to the twitch of her little fingers, wondered at the size of her little feet. And looking at her, he knew he’d never need anything more than Swan in his bed and Hope in his arms and Henry at his side.

Emma looked up at him, watched that vicious pirate melt into a puddle before his daughter, and knew that there was no going back. Not ever.

“Yeah,” she whispered, with a breathy little laugh, “we really do.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know. I thought I was done, but apparently not?
> 
> This one isn't as good as the last one, personally, but I wrote it and whatever. Last one. I swear. Maybe. Probably.

He slipped out of the bug slowly and threaded his fingers through the soft hair curling at the base of Hope’s head, drawing her closer to his chest. She slept, her small fingers twitching against the leather of his coat, and her little lips puckered around the soft sounds of her fussing. She kicked at his ribs with a content grunt and then settled, and in that moment he felt like that gelatinous substance, that one with the healing properties.

He felt helpful, right. _Good._

For once in his miserable existence, he felt completely incapable of anything but compassionate and honest love. True love.

A shiver fell down his back at the touch of the night air and he immediately twirled to find Swan shutting the door of her vessel. At his sudden movement, she looked up at him curiously. “What?”

“It’s cold out,” he said by way of explanation, momentarily incapable of thought because Hope had just breathed so deeply that he could feel her entire body shift and grow and what a miracle this little girl is, just bloody brilliant—

“It’s, like, fifty-five,” she told him and quirked one sharp brow at him. “You’re in leather. You’ll survive.” She tapped on the back window sharply and Henry jerked awake, muttering and cursing as he extracted himself from his nest of blankets. Emma’s lovely lips quirked with quiet amusement, ready to give him hell, no doubt.

Killian heaved a long-suffering sigh, catching her divided attention, and glanced pointedly at the bundle in his arms. “Not _me_ , love.”

“She’s got a jacket. And we’re going inside. She’s fine.”

“But, Swan—”

“Killian, I swear, if you turn into one of the bubble-wrap dads,” she warned him, electing to ignore the look of absolute loss that crossed his features _(“Bubble wrap?”)_ and rounded the car to join him on the sidewalk, finishing quietly, teasingly, “we’re going to have issues.”

He diverted his eyes, let them fall on his squirming daughter who couldn’t seem to get close enough to him, and knew that maybe he was ridiculous. Maybe he was overprotective and overcautious, a little unsure, and certainly desperate. Maybe he was a _bubble-wrap dad_. But maybe it was because all he’d known his entire life was love and loss. The bigger the love, the harder the loss, and the deeper he fell into someone Lieutenant Jones wouldn’t recognize. 

And while his love had always been big, _nothing_ in his two hundred and some years has felt as big as _that_. As the little girl in his arms and the small hand re-situating his elbow. He wasn't strong enough to lose this time. He couldn't lose Emma, and he refused to lose Hope.

So he’d _bubble-wrap dad_ her if that’s what it took.

Emma picked up on the turn of his thoughts and dropped her hand self-consciously. Her fingers dipped into the mouths of her jean pockets. She tilted her head at him with a gentle half-smile, studied the new father that had emerged from the deepest parts of him, and swayed on her feet as she whispered, “I’m kidding.”

Henry swung sleepily around the back of the bug, watching the stranger hold his sister warily, and reached to pop the trunk. He didn't know how to feel about the way the guy was looking at his family, mostly because he didn't know the guy, so he thought of asking him to help with the bags. He’d have to let go of Hope, but… well.

Henry may have been thirteen, and he may have spent the car ride focusing pointedly on his video games, but he was quick and perceptive enough to see the signs (not that he’d need to be, because honestly, just _look at them_ ). He saw it in the apartment, the morning that Emma had told him they were headed to Maine for a while. Killian had shown up, literally _swaggered_ in like he owned the place, bickered with them and then—then he caught sight of Hope and the bravado vanished instantly.

Emma had been completely incapable of keeping her eyes off of the inseparable pair, even as Hope grew hungry. Mom was technically still breastfeeding, but she had said that it wouldn’t hurt to start weaning her now, and so she made Hope her first bottle and gave it to _Killian._

The guy clearly didn’t know what the hell he was doing, and of course neither did Hope, but Emma’s interference was still minimal.

And she just watched from around Killian’s shoulder, and Henry just watched while he shoved his clothes into a duffle, and there’s a certain level of tender a man can have in his eyes regarding a baby before it becomes personal. The look in Killian’s eyes surpassed the line. Two and two, he was probably Hope’s dad.

Henry was pleased to say there wasn’t a drop of envy in his heart, just the first cautious blooms of joy.

“So,” he huffed, interrupting whatever weird moment the other two were having, and tugged a suitcase sharply from the trunk. “Where’ve you been?”

He kept his eyes focused on Killian, trying to not be accusing because no one can be as bad as his dad and he still loved that prick for some reason. Hope’s father deserved the same chance for redemption as Henry could probably be convinced to give his father with the proper plying. 

Killian tore his gaze from Hope with wide eyes, shocked, before glancing helplessly at Emma. It would be just the pirate’s luck that she was just as stunned as him. “How do you mean, lad?”

The coy act ticked off something within Henry but he bit it down and slammed the trunk closed, harder than necessary for good effect. His expression flattened as he said, “I’m a kid, not an idiot. You’re Hope’s dad.”

“I—I, um…” He glanced at Swan, who seemed to be coming to terms with Henry finding out on his own, without her prompting. Her gaze fell distantly to the ground. Hope wriggled and yanked on the lapel of his coat, catching his attention and saving him from answering momentarily. “Is… Are you alright with that?”

“You came back for her,” Henry told him, with a shrug like good just happens. Like he stills believed in fairytales. “More than I can say for my dad.”

Killian met Henry’s eyes steadily, shifting an awake Hope so that she rested higher on his shoulder and could grab his ear inquiringly, and told him firmly, “I came back for all of you.” 

The boy studied the man. Studied the fake hand cupping Hope’s rear and the real hand supporting her back. The drool left unattended on his shoulder. The way he didn’t seem to notice, or at least he wasn’t bothered.

And he decided then that this would be okay.

***

While heading up the stairs, Henry tried to be discreet in taking up the back so to observe the duo, but Killian noticed what he assumed was distrust and valiantly attempted to accept it for what it was. He tried to remember that he was a stranger to the lad, that he was some unfamiliar man handling his baby sister, because he knew that he would react similarly, if not worse, if he saw someone else familiarizing themselves with _his daughter._ So, he complied while Swan rolled her eyes at his back.

He hadn’t let go of the little girl, not once, and maybe that was selfish but he’d already missed so much. He found that he physically couldn’t separate himself from her.

She smelled sweetly of something floral dusted with baby powder and her little grunts were musical balms and she was drooling on his coat quite admirably and he was so in love, _so in love._

And gods, Swan was back and she hadn’t pushed him away yet or clarified her distinct lack of feelings for him. Rather, she’d been almost… encouraging. And her hair still shone like spun gold hung in the sun. And her eyes were as green as spring, as blue as gunmetal, as grey as a storm—he didn’t even bloody know; they were just everything all at once. And she smiled with a slanting secret, and she smelled of lavender and spices, and she was just as fierce and determined and stubborn. And she was _there, home, in Storybrooke._

And she knocked on the bloody door, regal and firm, and turned to him with a careful kind of happiness that looked a hell of a lot like a promise and a future, and he could hardly breathe when she looked at him like she might one day love him just as he loved her and the door swayed open and he couldn’t breathe and—

_“Emma?”_

They both tore their eyes off of each other to look at David. In the same moment, while his whole face lit with relief and joy, his eyes dropped the way that Killian’s had on that first day, and they landed on the little girl pressing sticky bubbles of spit to Killian’s duster. He stopped, one hand on the door frame and the other on the knob, his mouth tenderly hung open, and his eyes started to mist for just a moment. He remembered himself suddenly and pulled back, shaking his head. David’s eyes flicked between the new parents.

“Oh,” he managed, which was odd. Killian had been expecting a threat. Truly, he thought Dave would have move to hit him. Again.

“David,” Emma said tremulously. “This is my daughter. Hope.”


	4. Chapter 4

When David broke through the fog of utter bliss (his daughter home again, _safe_ , and with a baby—goodness, a _baby_ —with soft dark hair like Mary Margaret’s and big blue eyes like him, and little booties with bows on her little feet—a baby that will grow alongside his own), when he dropped his hand from cradling Emma’s head and was formally introduced to his grandson ( _again_ ) (because apparently Henry didn’t remember), his brow furrowed. 

“Wait.” He stepped back and glanced at Hope, “Who—” and then at Killian “— _You_.”

To which Killian grinned smugly, lifted his eyebrow as a taunt, and answered, “Aye, _me._ What of it?” 

David’s face contorted. “I thought I told you—”

“ _Okay_ ,” Emma interjected quickly, her hand dipping to Henry’s shoulder as if to remind David of both his simple presence and his temporary amnesia. She shot Hook a silent plea, her brows downturned in exasperation.

Her father, too, gave Hook a pointed look and growled, “We’ll talk later, pirate.”

“No,” Emma corrected. “You won’t.” Because as much as she had wanted this her whole life, craved a father who was going to ward off all the lecherous boys and their ill-intentions, she couldn’t bring herself to accept it now as a grown woman with not one, but two kids of her own. She could want it, but she couldn’t let herself have it.

Curious as ever and defensively confused, Henry set his soft eyes on the so-called _old friend_ and asked sharply, “Talk to him about what?”

She dropped her gaze to her son. “Kid, why don’t you take your sister,” she plucked the girl from Killian’s reluctant arms and passed her off, “and see if Mary Margaret has a blanket to spare? She might have something Hope can play with.”

“Who?” Henry adjusted his grip on the squirming baby, pressing down the rising tide of her coat’s collar, and furrowed his brows. 

She floundered for hardly a second before nudging him further inside and saying, “David’s wife. Ask nicely.”

And that should’ve been that. She should’ve been able to twist the ears of her overbearing father and her… pirate ( _whatever_ ) until they could figure out how to be civil and then they should’ve all just convened in the kitchen to discuss this new threat and maybe then they could’ve fawned over Hope (because that girl loved to be doted upon and Emma did nothing short of spoiling her) while working out a game plan except—

—Except when Mary Margaret finally managed to tromp down the stairs to greet her recently returned daughter and grandson, it was with her delicate hands pressed gently upon the swell of her belly, the place where a baby undoubtedly resided.

And Emma wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

“ _Emma!_ ” Snow cried, beaming at her daughter so hard that her nose scrunched. She swept her up in as tight a hug as she could muster, so tight that the slide of her child’s palm glided firmly across Emma’s stomach, and then grasped her hands when she finally pulled back. Her eyes darted to her grandson, grown and gangly, who still juggled the baby. “Henry! And…?”

Bluntly, as he had been with Killian when he first strolled into the apartment, Henry asked, “Have we met before?”

Mary Margaret blanched. “Oh?” She looked helplessly to Emma. “No, I—I just…”

“I called ahead,” Emma explained, hoping he would accept her lie because she had nothing else she could give. She hated lying to him. But… but the truth was too much and they were—he was happy with his old memories. She wanted that for him. So she’d lie (for now) if she had to and she refused to feel too bad about it. “To tell them we’d be stopping by for a bit.”

Mary Margaret rallied and dropped Emma’s hands so that she could confidently extend one to Henry. She gave him a winning smile while he shifted his sister around from hip to hip, trying to balance her while freeing up his right hand.

When Emma’s gaze wandered, just for a moment, to where Killian had secluded himself out of their circle, she could see his offer on the tip of his tongue. His eyes rested softly on Hope who had her face tilted into Henry’s neck and was becoming more and more agitated with his fidgeting, and she knew that he wanted to volunteer to hold her, just until the boy had acquainted himself with his family. She knew that he wanted to hold his daughter and that small piece of her heart that yearned to trust him, to invite him in, to have him as her own, that small piece that had owned her for one sweet night wanted to see him with the girl again.

But by the time she opened her mouth (because _he_ apparently wouldn’t) Henry had already freed his right hand and shook Mary Margaret’s firmly. “I’m Henry.” And then a pause before: “ _Oh!_ And it’s nice to meet you.”

Snow’s smile softened. “And who is this?” She pressed her fingers to her belly where a tiny foot was pushing back.

“This,” Henry announced proudly, twisting a little so that the woman might see the girl’s cherubic face, “is my sister, Hope.”

Mary Margaret’s wide eyes flicked to Emma appraisingly before landing back on Henry. “Is she now?” Her raised brow and subtle smirk suggested exactly the conversation that Emma was totally not going to be having any time soon.

“Well,” she blurted, taking Henry by the shoulders and steering him towards the door, “we’ve had a long night and Hope’s got a schedule. Granny’s?”

Before anyone could say a word, she was halfway down the stairs with Henry and Hope, the boy sparing one glance back to make sure that Killian was following.

He was.

***

There was a curse to be countered, a child to sacrifice, and no time left that all melted into their last memory before there was nothing. And the nothing awoke into a still morning in sleepy, small-town Storybrooke, the same as it had for every morning of the twenty-eight years before.

Except everything was different and it had once again fallen upon Emma’s heavy shoulders to fix a break that she had no business tending.

They had agreed that their first priority would be finding the newest villain right up until the moment that the dwarves had burst in, relaying that a number of their brothers were missing. Which then revealed that Neal was also missing. 

And Emma was worried for him, for _them_ —really. She was.

Because he may have put her through hell, whatever his reasons, but he was still Henry’s father and that counted. For something. 

It counted for something that he was there for Henry.

So, yeah, she was worried. But… 

Well, it was hard when her mother threw those knowing looks and sad eyes at her like she had just been cut in half and hadn’t realized it yet. When her father rubbed her mother’s shoulder and dropped his head as if he were mourning. Like she was terminal and they were still working out how to break the news gently.

Emma was trying to figure out how to break her own news gently that, despite her mother’s best wishes, Emma was not in love with Neal the way they believed her to be. She thought that nothing short of waving Hope in her face would suffice, and even then—

So their first order of business became confronting Regina (because Emma wasn’t convinced of her innocence) and then gathering the town and identifying all the people who were missing. And then they’d work from there.

When they were satisfied with their (meager, bare-boned) plan, they settled into a warm silence, just looking at each other and not saying anything. Killian wandered from the window and drifted to her side, Snow’s eyes following him curiously and a bit irritably, and he gestured to the couch with a murmured, “May I?”

She nodded.

Snow looked doubtful. Doubtful of what, Emma couldn’t say.

(Wouldn’t say)

He sat between her and the arm of the couch and leaned so that his leg could kick out with style, appearing every bit the commanding pirate captain he was, and pressed the end of his hook to his thumb. And though she wasn’t looking at him, was doing her best to keep her eyes anywhere but on him, she was so aware of him. Of his tongue that thrust from the corner of his mouth to touch upon his pink lips. Of his chest that rose slow in the still air around him, dusted with dark hair, and the shoulder that brushed hers with each steady breath. Of his heat that spread from her side and into her chest, the flutter of a flame that clenched her belly.

And she remembered warm fingers sliding up the length of her arm, his thumb brushing the crook of her elbow before continuing his pursuit of her clenched fist, unraveling the knotted digits and tangling them with his own. Her free hand carding through his dark, mussed hair, pulling him closer. The press of his beard down her neck and upon the hollow of her throat and along her collarbone and—

On the coffee table in front of her, the baby monitor lit up with quiet grunts of discontent. Across the way, Mary Margaret grabbed the arm rests like she was preparing to launch herself out of the chair, and beside her, Killian tensed and pulled his leg back to a more reasonable position, his eyes fixed on the small white device.

“What the bloody hell is that?” His dark brows fell in distrust and he swept it up to examine it closer. “It’s… it’s like those talking phones?”

“Baby monitor. It’s more like a walkie-talkie, but for babies,” she told him, standing and smoothing her skirt while she worked her way up the stairs. She could just hear him approaching Mary Margaret about it when she made it to her room and pushed the door open. Henry was drowsily leant over his sister’s crib, bracing himself on the sides, and he turned to acknowledge her.

“Smells like diaper,” he muttered, his nose twisting in disgust.

She sent him back to bed and gathered the whimpering girl who anointed her mother’s shoulder with her tears, hauled the baby bag upon her shoulder, and trudged resignedly back down the stairs so that Henry could sleep, with every intention of just blowing past her mother and her pirate.

And yet, when she rounded the corner into the parlor, she found Killian holding the monitor closer to his ear with a small look of wonder on his face, as if waiting for just one more gurgle, one more cry to crackle to life in his hand.

He dropped his hand to his lap when he saw the pair of them at the foot of the stairs, his jaw hung loose and his blue eyes more genuine than he usually allowed, and she felt something strange stirring in her heart. It felt almost fond, almost familiar. It felt good and she felt good and that was probably why she nodded towards the communal bathroom and asked, “You coming?”

It was that feeling that strengthened her in a moment when she normally would’ve cowered; it was holding to the look of… of she didn’t even know what on his face that had her leading him down the hall despite Mary Margaret’s curious “Why?” that morphed into a bewildered, “ _Oh_.”

It was what crossed her arms with his while he held Hope’s tiny feet and she tended to their daughter’s needs. 

It was why, in a moment heavy with intimacy, she looked up at him and gave a shy smile.

And it was okay, because he gave it back.


	5. Chapter 5

When they get word from Robin freaking Hood of Sherwood _freaking_ Forest about Little John’s (what the hell even is her life) not-so-mysterious disappearance, she’s hunkered down in her old bed at the loft with Hope plucking clumsily at her shirt, mulling over her brief chat with Regina the day before. She believed Henry’s other mother for a number of reasons—the main one being that Regina hadn’t really profited much from this curse—and that had effectively eliminated her most promising lead. 

Which was frustrating as hell, to say the least.

She was back at square one with nothing to work with. She wanted her town, and most importantly her family, safe from an attack that could come at any moment—

—if the latest crisis even _had_ a villain pulling the strings. The disappearances suggested it but a very quiet voice in the deepest recesses of her mind stubbornly whispered that maybe, just _maybe_ , the curse was a way to get her back home. Maybe it had been cast with benevolent intent, to save her, to reunite everyone, or—

She cut the thought off and buried it swiftly under more rational reasons.

She didn’t know the particulars of casting the Dark Curse but assumed that controlled memory loss was an integral part of it—otherwise the curse was really just an… an elaborate portal, right? So, why would her family rip away their own memories if they intended to find her? There _had_ to be a villain.

And that thought told her that they had never intended to come back for her and Henry, and she didn’t want it to hurt so much, didn’t want to think about how they had sent her away _again_ for the sake of saving everyone else, didn’t want to consider that maybe she _was_ too old, too jaded and used to be their daughter, that they would choose safety over family, over _her_ , nobody ever chose her…

She didn’t want it to hurt, but it _did_. 

The tears pressed at the corners of her eyes and hung, suspended on a breath, waiting for one more wave of pain or loss to sweep her up in a current that she had no time to drown in, _dammit_ , she was the _Savior_ and she didn’t need… she wouldn’t waste precious time on tears. It couldn’t be allowed.

But then the thought of her new sibling, her replacement, slipped past her walls and she choked on a sob that was too big to swallow, couldn’t force it back this time, wasn’t strong enough, on her own as always with no one to hold her up while she stumbled—and—and—

Hope nudged at her.

When she smeared the tears from her eyes, blinked it all away, there was her daughter in her arms chewing irritably on the hair that had fallen from Emma’s shoulder and into her face. The girl pressed a tight fist into Emma’s chest and kicked out in a stilted stretch.

And when Hope began to fuss, Emma couldn’t resist a watery laugh that melted into a fond smile. “Okay, _okay_ ,” she whispered, gently pulling her hair from her kid’s mouth and tying it up in a loose ponytail.

She smiled. Hope smiled back.

She let the baby nurse and smoothed her dark hair all the while, then paused to prop her up in her lap and rubbed her hand over the creases of a duckling onesie.

Just as she was moving her shirt aside again, Hope stubbornly insisting on trying to pull herself up prematurely (which she _couldn’t_ , but she tried anyway and Emma loved that), quick footsteps sounded heavily on the stairs leading to her room and her father appeared, face a mask of consternation.

“Emma, something’s happened at—” He froze, eyes widening when he glanced at his granddaughter and realized just how… _exposed_ Emma was, hands drifting up to his hips and then falling away uneasily. A faint blush flickered across his face.

Emma raised one encouraging eyebrow, tamping down her previous insecurities about being the Savior, before paying special attention to guiding her girl to her chest.

“Oh, uh,” he stammered and pivoted away. His fists settled firmly on his hips. He paused. “You’re busy. I’ll just… um. I’ll catch you up later or—”

“David. What happened?”

He glanced back at her over his shoulder but quickly dropped his gaze and faced the stairs again. He cleared his throat. “Really, don’t worry about it. You should… you should stay here. With her. There was a—never mind. I’ll handle it.”

And then he was trudging back down the stairs (pinching the bridge of his nose, muttering, embarrassed) (what a _guy_ ) before she could react beyond her mouth falling open in bewildered protest. She furrowed her brows as he disappeared, gathered Hope in her arms and followed him stubbornly to the first floor where she found Henry still at the counter, bent over his phone, across from Mary Margaret, and Hook at the door talking quietly with David.

They stood close to each other for the sake of privacy so Emma had to shoulder her way between them, glaring up at her father. 

(She felt Killian’s hand brush the small of her back, her side, her hip and excused it as a reaction to her nearly bowling him over and nothing more. It was an accident.)

(It wasn’t)

She set her jaw stubbornly and pushed away any romantic (friendly, platonic, _whatever_ ) notions. “You’re gonna tell me what’s going on. You guys brought me here so I could help, so _let me help_.”

David stepped back and trained his gaze too determinedly on her face, tried to protest with a weak, “I can handle it” before Killian moved to her side (and his hand was _definitely_ pressed to her back, warm and a little uncertain, and she _definitely_ didn’t lean into it) (except she definitely did) and told her quietly, “One of the Merry Men was snatched up by a winged beast.”

“Where?” she asked, focusing on Killian because she had no reasonable excuse not to other than she simply couldn’t handle it—but there were things, many things, that Emma would never admit to and being weak-kneed for the pirate was still one of them. For how long, she couldn’t rightly say anymore because nothing was the same since... well, since Neverland she supposed. Everything had changed.

“The town line. Apparently, local fowl may cross with ease but citizens of the forest have no such luck.” He lifted his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and widened his eyes with mild impatience for the shenanigans of the town. “Your father and I were to meet Robin Hood and his band of misfits for information. I believe it will do little in supplying us with anything new.”

David let out a sound of protest and glared at Killian. “They actually saw what happened. If they saw the creature who took Little John, then maybe they can help us find it.”

“A winged beast at the town line hardly seems to require an expert eye,” Killian started with a snarky tilt to his head until Emma nudged him sharply. But before she could delegate specific tasks, Hope released her mother and pressed away with her small fist, her eyes trained on Hook with something a bit like recognition. A bit like joy.

The sass drifted off, his fight with David forgotten, and he couldn’t help but to smile warmly at the girl; and at an age of imitation, Hope attempted a smile back as she had for Emma, but the churn of her stomach screwed her pink nose with discomfort. She started to fuss.

“Swan?” Killian prompted, stepping just a bit closer and reaching for the girl with his free arm before he remembered his hook and yanked it back under the cover of his coat.

While Emma tugged her shirt up (for her father’s sake really) she called for Henry over her shoulder to grab a towel from Hope’s bag. She shifted Hope with a hand cupping the back of her head and met Henry halfway to grab the towel, but her mind hung on the flying creature attacking the town. She tossed the cloth over her shoulder and settled the baby there.

Emma moved back to Hook’s side, her hand working across Hope’s back, smoothing and patting and rubbing, and her body unintentionally swayed to its steady beat. 

(And where she couldn’t see, Killian’s eyes lingered on his artificial appendage, on its curve and sharp edge)

(He _knew_ he shouldn’t have worn it)

(Damn it)

“Okay, David, take the… Merry Men out, run a search grid. See if you can find the missing guy,” Emma sighed. Hope pressed her open mouth to the towel and jolted with a stifled burp, her eyes skipping between Killian and the rest of the room.

“You’re not coming, Swan?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, realizing suddenly that Killian intended on going with David. 

Which was _fine_ , of course. He would be the most helpful looking for Little John, not sitting around the loft with her and the baby so he could… so he could what? Watch her burp the kid? Watch her lay Hope down for a nap? And then follow her to the meeting where she’d ‘confront’ Regina so that he could stand off to the side? 

Or… or he could be the one to stay with Hope rather than Mary Margaret, could be the one to stand over her to check her breathing, could be the one there when she woke and—

No. No, _of course_ he should go with David.

She couldn’t reasonably leave him alone with Hope. There was still so much he didn’t know compounded with his complete lack of confidence around the girl that she shouldn’t be comfortable with it. 

(Or maybe it was that she wanted to be the one to show him how.)

It dawned on her that she hadn’t answered him. “Uh, no. Regina was right; I won’t get answers talking to everyone one-by-one. I’m calling a meeting.”

He furrowed his brow but nodded anyway, moving back towards the door with his hook still tucked behind his back. David stepped out into the hall with Killian just on his heels and she didn’t know what made her do it but she lunged forward and grabbed him by the elbow.

“But, um, maybe you’d stay? To watch Hope?”

Killian stepped into her space reflexively in a way she was surprised to find familiar and lifted his hand in a halted reach before dropping it back to his side. His thumb fluttered over his fingertips. “Aye. I’d like that.”

From the hall, David made a disgruntled noise. “You sure he wouldn’t be more useful in the search?”

“You’ll find,” Hook bit back, that chill of defense coursing up his stiffened spine, “the forest isn’t really my forte, _mate_. You know. Pirate and all.”

The two eyed each other, one with distrust and the other annoyed resignation, igniting the air with tension so thick it made Hope squirm her way back into the spotlight. She gave a happy little grunt and tugged her mother’s chain when it fell into her reach.

Before anyone could say anything else that would weaken Emma’s newly-shifted resolve, she cupped Hope’s head and bum and tucked her into the cradle of Killian’s arm. “Now’s really not the time, David.”

She grabbed her coat and, with only a beat of hesitation, pressed a kiss to the top of Hope’s head and ushered her father outside.

She had things to do and not a lot of time to waste.

***  
Snow ordered an orange juice and a pastry he didn’t yet recognize, and then proceeded to not touch either while she buried her nose in some book about American babies. He didn’t know what exactly that meant, but based on her expression, he was hoping to hell that Hope wasn’t an American anything.

Henry beside him was completely invested in some sort of game on his talking phone. Hope slept soundly with her cheek pressed to his chest, face smooshed and mouth hanging open. Ruby kept shooting them miserable glances. And his hook sat uselessly on the counter back in the loft, leaving him without even his wooden substitute.

The sounds of the diner chimed pitifully under the sharp flip of pages and folding corners. Mary Margaret’s eyebrows swung low in alarm.

“My God,” she muttered into her book. Her eyes flitted across the pages. “Did you know there’s something called ‘cradle cap’? Babies get it on their heads…”

Killian skimmed Hope’s dark tuft of hair. “What now?”

She didn’t even pause, just leaned back in the booth as she read excitedly, “It’s a crusty, yellow, greasy, scaly skin rash.” She looked over at Henry, who still hadn’t faltered from his game, and tried again, “Seriously, this book uses _all_ of those words.”

“Bloody hell,” Killian said on an exhale, his free arm moving to support Hope while he smoothed his hand over her head, absolutely _not_ worrying. The little girl stirred for a moment and turned her face into his coat, before settling back again with cheek to chest. 

Henry flicked his eyes over to his sister and said, “She’s already had it.”

“She _what_?”

He nodded into his game and muttered something about ‘rezzing’ someone. “Yeah. Really gross. But it goes away on its own, so…” He shrugged.

“So, it doesn’t hurt her?” He combed down the hair he’d mussed and pressed his lips to her head.

Henry let out a reassuring “nah” before delving back into the game.

Snow pursed her lips in consideration, felt herself deflating the more Henry continued to ignore her, and tried to think of something that would win him over. She didn’t think it would be so hard to befriend her own grandson. She’d been his teacher since he’d started school, for goodness sake, but he only seemed to talk to the pirate and that was… well, quite insulting, honestly.

“You know,” she started and hoped she sounded appropriately aloof, “there’s a library down the street. We can go and get you something, if you want. I know how much you like to read.”

Henry’s face folded into confusion but his gaze never wavered. “How’d you know that?”

“Oh, um.” Snow glanced at Killian who had his cheek tilted to touch the top of Hope’s head and was hardly invested in the conversation anymore. “Your… your mom mentioned it. I think.”

Here, Henry looked up at his grandmother, his eyes free of suspicion. He seemed to consider it, his fingers hovering over the screen in anticipation of resuming the game, his eyes traveling quickly to his sister. “Hope likes being read bedtime stories. Think we can find something with, like, fairytales or whatever?”

Both Killian and Snow stilled, she from a nervous reflex, and he from the morsel of information. A quick, accidental find that he tucked away in his mind. Hope liked bedtime stories. Such a simple thing, small and quite ordinary—all things considered, it wasn’t exactly groundbreaking. But it tripped the beat of his heart, even still.

He tried to picture it. He imagined Emma leant on the edge of the crib, her golden curls spilling over her shoulders and down her back, with a creaking book in hand—or no, a new book, her fingers gripping the cover and her soft voice carrying the story—

No. Emma lounging in a polished chair, stained dark and smooth, their daughter settled on her chest so that she can feel the words running across Emma’s breast bone. Her toes pushing them into the rhythm of a fabled sea, like a ship rocked to nature’s lullaby, the pair swaying on the imaginary deck of Emma’s creation. Moonlight filtered through silvery curtains—oh, blue curtains, as sweet and soft as the girl’s fresh eyes, the beams pressing soft shadows into their skin, and him in the doorway—

“Cool,” Henry nodded, breaking Killian from his thoughts. “Let me run upstairs and grab my coat.” The boy turned his body in a leading manner, attention back on his talking phone, and scooted closer. Killian slid from the booth and shifted out of Henry’s way, the lad scurrying passed and through the backdoor to the inn.

With clear exhaustion, the princess sighed heavily and leaned her face toward her hands that rested on the table, as best she could in her condition. The tension in her shoulders was obvious, especially to him who was in the habit of studying people. He saw and understood. And normally he would ignore it—not particularly invested in… _anyone’s_ problems—but something made him offer begrudgingly, “He’ll come around. If not on his own, it’s only a matter of time before—”

“Oh, _hello_ there!” A voice chirped over his shoulder in that tone that would catch a child’s attention. That condescending, high-pitched manner. “Aren’t you pretty! Yes, you are.”

Hook glanced at Hope who had maneuvered herself to peek over his shoulder at—he turned to look—a lovely redhead, the undoubted source of such a grating sound. Her lips were pulled back into a magnificent display of bared teeth, a sweet enough smile at first glance. She was seated at a table for two, her coat draped over her arm.

He gave her a curt nod with a smile more like a grimace before turning back to Emma’s mother, the rest of his sour encouragement still poised on the tip of his tongue when the stranger continued, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear—new father?” She rose and made her way closer unfortunately.

Hook’s eyes rolled of their own volition. He pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows. “Something of the sort.”

“How old is she?” The vibrant woman cooed at his child, niggling a finger in Hope’s face. Despite the lass’s giggles, he turned his body away irritably.

“Not very.” 

The redhead smarted, her pasted-on smile wavering for just a beat. “If I may, she’s adorable. So sweet. The _picture_ of innocence.”

Snow managed through her beaming smile, “Isn’t she?” just as he snapped back, “How kind and incredibly unsolicited of you.”

“ _Hook_ ,” Mary Margaret reprimanded sharply.

At length, he turned his gaze back to the princess and attempted to soften his expression.

Under different circumstances, in a different town, in a different sort of establishment, he might’ve taken the attention better. He might have flirted. Redheads weren’t his type, but if he were drunk enough… Still, it was Storybrooke. And his daughter. In a life of loss, he couldn’t afford to be casual with the welfare of the one person left who might love him.

“I’m… sorry,” the woman managed, grimacing and ducking her face away. Something about her grated at him. 

But Emma’s mother was giving him that distrustful side-eye, the one where she tried to subtly flick her eyes to the squirming bundle in his arms with blatant concern, and he was already exhausted from the no-doubt uphill battle of proving himself, and so he gave a slight nod of his head in acknowledgement. It hardly mattered.

By that time, the woman had introduced herself as Zelena and settled in the booth beside Mary Margaret, blathering on about her experiences as a midwife, the pair finding comradery rooted in a common enemy.

He suddenly had a horrible feeling about the whole thing, but decided against saying anything further. It would only fortify a bond best broken. Instead, he turned his gaze to Hope, who had begun to fuss, and felt a different sort of panic swell in his chest.

Time, evidently, to test his mettle.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things: sorry again for such a long wait. If you follow me on tumblr (readylovewrites) then you know that I've been liberal with my complaints about this chapter. Odd because it's so simple.
> 
> Second, Regina and I are... not friends. Regardless, I want to be pretty objective with her. Please, please feel free to give some feedback on her writing.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and being patient.

The horrible, lovely thing about Hope was that her tears were often the quiet kind, that secret suffering an odd, unsettling, painful trait that Emma had hoped she’d grow out of. Because the silence was the kind of sadness that wouldn’t be easily soothed. It wouldn’t betray a reason or rhyme, and if she wasn’t looking for it constantly, she’d never even know it was happening. Emma and Henry hated it, that simmering paranoia it fed—wished she’d be louder.

That’s what Henry told him as some small form of comfort when the lass had busted out into wild, red-faced wailing. They’d been wishing for her to be louder. All it took was a magical town.

“We’ll just…” Henry grimaced, glancing towards the bedroom where Mary Margaret had waddled off to the moment they arrived at the loft. She had given them firm instructions to wake her for anything—it, frankly, blew his mind that she was somehow still asleep—and they had every honest intention of doing just that. Except… “We’ll do it ourselves.”

Killian, too, hesitated long enough to mull it over—the mistrust of the Charmings, the mistrust of himself, the hopeful lilt to Emma’s voice when she had handed him their daughter—and knew that he had to do this alone. If he was going to prove himself, it wouldn’t do to shout for help. Even if Hope had latched onto his chest hair and given it a furious yank.

“How hard can it be?” the lad asked, his shoulder quirking in sync with the corner of his mouth. He dodged the arm that swung out for him, the child only crying more ferociously when her hand came back empty, and drew the canister closer to him. “Just follow the instructions, right?”

Killian studied the tin doubtfully—only briefly, with a stern side-eye, before Hope gave another furious howl. His face was nearly as red as hers, the pair making for quite a flustered sight. He smoothed his digits down her quivering back, then worked a finger into her little fist and shifted his weight.

“Okay, so, you just… just change her diaper. And I’ll make her a bottle.”

“Aye, I’ll just change her diaper.”

Henry opened the can of formula that Mary Margaret had taken the pair to buy (the formula that she also paid for), stared down into its depths for a moment, and then firmly resealed it with pursed lips. He pivoted towards Hook. “Maybe I should change the diaper.”

He faltered for a beat, his eyes flitting down and lips pursing. “Your mother showed me how. I think I can manage…” He leaned forward as if to deposit Hope on the bare counter, head pounding too tempestuously for clearer thoughts, when Henry lurched in realization.

“Not here!” he barked, stirring Hope’s competitive nature ( _that_ , of course, came from Emma) and ratcheting up her yowls. Quieter, Henry amended, “The floor. Or the coffee table. Or seriously anywhere that isn’t the kitchen. Preferably on something… disposable? Just in case.”

“Aye. Of course.” Killian turned to contemplate how he would get her on the floor. He had no hook, nor hand to support her. He supposed he could attach the hook but that seemed worse than the risk of dropping her. Captain Hook could do many a thing with his lethal claw—gut a man or make him beg; he had adjusted. But this was too much delicacy in one wishful moment. Switch arms? He’d not be able to support her head and—“Maybe you should...”

Henry seemed to agree. With compassion, he uttered, “Just until you’ve had more practice.”

“Of course.” Killian didn’t point out that this could probably be considered practice.

“The instructions seem pretty easy. Just water and then formula. But not too much water. I read online that that’s dangerous. And I think you’re supposed to warm it up? I think I’ve seen that on TV. We can google it.” Henry continued to describe the ridiculously arduous process, tossing out some bewildering and alien terms that Hook had never heard, but it was all for naught.

Killian didn’t know how to tell Henry that he was quite useless with modern technology.

Regardless, they attempted an exchange, squirming babe for plastic tin, before quickly realizing their mistake. Hope let out a ferocious cry, tears streaming down her cheeks and her little fists clenching and releasing and jerking until she was nestled back against the warmed leather of her father’s coat, his soothing sounds pressed into her hair.

She snuffled, smearing her nose into the familiar leather, and he wished he knew what more he could do to ease her pain.

“Um…” Henry twisted the baby formula around and glanced begrudgingly towards the bedroom. “Maybe… maybe we _should_ get Mrs. Nolan?”

“No,” Killian said, too quickly. And then, feeling ridiculously childish for it, he added, “She really ought to rest this late in her pregnancy.”

“Oh. Right.”

An aching moment of Hope’s tears burning deep cavities into his heart set shame alight under his skin. Shame that spread black in his veins. In that profound instant, of whimpers and winces and watery eyes, he was struck with a thought:

He was not meant to be a father.

It was true enough that the time he came from demanded little of a man for the task—but this was not then. And he did not take the privilege so lightly. He thought of Emma grabbing his arm and pushing the girl into his hold, thought of her quiet, hopeful question, her bright eyes and certain mouth that foolishly believed she could leave him in charge for one damn afternoon. And then he thought of the betrayal, the disappointment, the… the disgust that would surely follow when she beheld his failure.

A year ago he left the Charmings behind for open waters because he could not imagine fitting without Emma; now, he wondered if it would be more of the same.

“Okay, just… just try and calm her down a bit and I’ll get started on the bottle. Then we can do diaper duty together.” 

“Aye.” He nodded. But the venture was fruitless, his little love squirming in his hold, and making a grand attempt at escape that otherwise would have made him proud, and crying more uproariously with each moment; even as he hushed her, and trailed a finger down the length of her pinked and runny nose, and slid his knuckle over her pinked and damp cheeks—

It was useless. 

Henry started shuffling around in the kitchen, pulling open cabinets and opening taps and working furiously at a magic box. A minute later, something beeped and further upset Hope.

Completely useless.

Henry, having accomplished whatever he was doing—he did not deem it necessary to share—hurried to take the girl from Hook’s arms and directed the man about until the pair were huddled over her. And with his only hand completely and necessarily occupied, it occurred to him that he could never do this on his own.

He was so damn useless.

***  
“I just… want to check on them,” Emma muttered, knowing Regina was rolling her eyes and sighing and putting on that haughty act behind her back but she ignored it in favor of knocking soundly on the apartment door.

“We do _not_ have time for this, Miss Swan. This is our one chance to catch whoever took our memories. The pirate can wait—”

“Here’s the thing,” Emma cut in with a slight scowl, “Hook _can_ wait, but I can’t. I just want to see that my kid’s alright. I figured _you_ would understand that.”

After a stricken moment, Regina smirked, her eyebrow tilted with smug amusement. “Don’t trust him?”

Emma heaved a long suffering sigh and turned an annoyed glare on her, not wanting to justify the question because it had no basis. At all. None. She knocked again.

“It’s fair. And I do understand. Because I certainly wouldn’t have trusted him with…” the former queen faltered and then, after gathering her composure, forged ahead, stronger than before, “with Henry. What with the one hand and all.”

Emma didn’t know whether to feed into the pang of sympathy she felt or the urge to defend Hook’s capabilities as a babysitter—no. As a _father_. Father, not babysitter. Father.

Opting not to fall into Regina’s goading—an obvious defense mechanism if Emma ever saw one—Emma furrowed her brow and turned the handle, startled when she found it locked. “What the hell?”

Scoffing, Regina waved a hand and the satisfying click of the bolt rang out between them. Emma turned to give the woman she tentatively called friend a grateful smile, which Regina promptly ruined with her impatient gaze and gesture towards the door. “Any day now. You really ought to practice using magic.”

Emma rolled her eyes. 

She didn’t know what to expect, having left Hook alone all day with an infant and a teenager, having no true experience with parenting in the first place. But Henry was a good kid so it couldn’t really be that bad.

Still, guiltily, she had to admit to the niggling worry that had settled in the back of her mind. 

She couldn’t bear it if… if she were wrong earlier. If she had acted on a stupid impulse rather than listening to logic and things had fallen apart. There’d be no one to blame but herself.

But the fear turned out to be misplaced. When she stepped into the room, Regina hanging back in the hall, her heart crawled up her throat in a rich swell of fondness. She could hardly bear it.

Henry was passed out in the armchair, headphones slipping from his ears, mouth hung open with a conspicuous snore. He carelessly wore a perfectly dark patch of probably drool that was probably Hope’s on his shoulder. And lounging opposite him, with one booted foot dangling off the side of the couch, the other planted firmly on the floor, was Captain Hook cradling a baby to his chest and clutching an empty bottle in his hand.

_Oh_ , her heart sighed.

“Oh,” her mouth agreed.

“Emma? Was that you knocking?” A bleary Mary Margaret appeared behind her, yanking her from the moment. Her mother’s dark hair was still perfectly in place, clothes seemingly unrumpled, like pure magic. “Sorry, this pregnancy’s really kicking my butt.” Snow swiped under her eyes and patted down her bangs.

Emma nearly laughed at Mary Margaret’s idea of a rough pregnancy. “Yeah. Sorry. How’d it go? How were th—how was she?”

Mary Margaret bunched her shoulders sheepishly, her gaze following Emma’s to the sitting area. “Honestly, I fell asleep when we got back from the diner. But… it looks like she was fine.”

Emma nodded, folding her bottom lip between her teeth. “Yeah. Everything seems… fine. Everyone’s fine.”

“Alright, Emma. Time to go,” Regina huffed, coming in from the hallway. Her heart, ever betraying her, snatched up her control and turned her face towards the couches, a lost ship beckoned by the light. Roughly, she murmured, “Well. Looks like your pirate isn’t completely useless after all.”

Unthinkingly, Emma breathed, “Yeah. Everything looks good.” And then, realizing: “He’s not my anything.” 

“Oh _please_.”


End file.
